


Goodbye Babylon

by bikuai



Series: Jesse McCree Ain’t No Lost Cause [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Angsty Teenage Cowboy, Ashe is only mentioned, Aviophobia, Blackwatch Era, Crafty Jesse McCree, Gen, Jesse McCree has no parents, Mentions of Nicotine Addiction, Not Beta Read, Puppets, borderline crack at some points, don’t mind the tags, implied clear air turbulence, this fic is light-hearted and funny, what do you expect from Puppet Jesse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26668534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bikuai/pseuds/bikuai
Summary: Times are changing, and the people need rearranging.Especially Jesse McCree, who is given the choice to join Blackwatch or rot in prison for the rest of his life.
Relationships: Ana Amari & Jesse McCree, Elizabeth Caledonia Ashe & Jesse McCree, Jesse McCree & Reaper | Gabriel Reyes
Series: Jesse McCree Ain’t No Lost Cause [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1820152
Kudos: 16





	Goodbye Babylon

**Author's Note:**

> Y’all really liked Puppet Jesse didn’t you? Here’s his origin story.
> 
> Obligatory title song: Goodbye Babylon by The Black Keyes

Before getting plucked out of the New Mexican canyons by Blackwatch, Jesse McCree considered himself something of a craftsman. He mended his own clothes, dyed his serapes, and had a knack for cross-stitching. McCree picked up these skills from his abuela as a child, but they became lifesavers when he went on the run with Deadlock. His first months without adult supervision were spent hiding from the cops, stealing from twenty-four-hour diners, and embroidering the Deadlock insignia on the back of his favorite leather jacket.

As time went on, the gang earned its footing in the southwestern crime scene. Money and supplies became less of an issue, and a comfortable routine fell into place.

When the desert sun was blistering hot, rendering the day unfit for any sort of strenuous activity, McCree would hide away with bolts of fabric and spools of thread. Most were borrowed (read: stolen) from arts and crafts shops along Route 66. With practiced hands, he would fold and cut and stitch the fabric into increasingly detailed hand puppets.

He started with one of Ashe. It was meant to be a one-off project, a joke really, but through the tedious process of designing and sewing, he grew attached to his work. Before long, he made a puppet of himself, Bob, and the two other gang founders. It became habitual, instinctive almost, to spend a bit of time each evening either detailing the puppets or, more often, using them to privately rehash old arguments in his favor. All the things he wished he could have said and all the things he still hoped to say, they were acted out in mini exchanges between Puppet Jesse and the rest of Puppet Deadlock.

Puppet Jesse, equipped just as stylishly as his full-sized counterpart, always knew the perfect thing to say and do. His friends loved him, his allies admired him, and his enemies feared the quick draw of his puppet-sized Peacekeeper. It was an escape, a place where he could forget his ambiguous morals, the lines he crossed, and the people he lost.

Then the Overwatch sting operation happened and tore Deadlock asunder. As his allies and loyalties evaporated into thin air, Jesse McCree looked to the only lifeline that was tossed his way: Blackwatch. After handshaking to a rather conspicuous deal, McCree was granted thirty minutes to collect his things. All the stolen weapons and other contraband had already been confiscated, to prevent the young cowboy from getting any smart ideas. There was little else McCree could do but follow his first set of orders. In Commander Reyes’s own words, they were: “Pack your shit, and get back here before we lift off. Don’t bring anything stupid.”

It’d been so long since he had an adult telling him what to do that obedience felt odd, almost alien. Ashe was technically eighteen, but McCree never felt that she bossed him around any more than he did her. He always had some freedom, some control, but now that was stripped from him.

After being dismissed from the commander’s presence, McCree trudged back to the innocuous stucco building, most likely for the last time. He scoured through his pocket for a cigar that wasn’t there. When his hand came up empty, he cursed the commander, then himself.

Sifting through the remains of the deserted hideout, McCree looked for anything of value that he might be able to sell or trade later. Old habits die hard. He pocketed two hundred dollars worth of cash from under a set of couch cushions and picked up a gold-trimmed watch from behind a stack of shoplifted holo-monitors. After ascertaining the value of his spoils, McCree slipped off to his “room.” In all honesty, it was more of a curtained-off section of the large basement. The whole area was subdivided by several different sets of portières, each representing a different member’s claim.

The pearl white curtains of Ashe’s corner tempted McCree fiercely, but he knew he couldn’t go down that rabbit hole. Not now. If she’d planned to use him as a scapegoat, then she’d done a great job of it, and that was that. Part of McCree was afraid of what other betrayals he might find on the other side of that shimmering satin veil. Perhaps she orchestrated the whole sting operation to get the heat of the authorities off her back. He quickly shook the idea from his mind. There were more pressing matters at this time. He pulled aside the heavy suede curtain that guarded his room.

It looked the same as he left it, to his relief. He dropped to his knees and pulled a hidden drawer from beneath his bed. Inside was a weathered shoebox. McCree lifted the lid, revealing Puppet Jesse and his Deadlock companions. A moment was taken to admire his craftsmanship before he grabbed his miniature self and tucked him into the corner of the duffel bag the commander had issued him.

From inside the bag, Puppet Jesse watched as articles of clothing were tossed in beside him. Several pairs of jeans, some dress shirts, and all of his serapes entered without ceremony. To top it off, a spare pair of cowboy boots was squeezed into the bulging bag. Puppet Jesse, now packed under a suffocating layer of serapes, was alone for the first time. Like so many people in the life of the man he was modeled after, his own puppet partners-in-crime had abandoned him. Being alone was scary, and the feeling burrowed deep in his chest. Not that Puppet Jesse truly had such emotions.

McCree zipped up the bag and threw the long strap over his shoulder. Before leaving, he took a final look around. It wasn’t much, but it was the best home he ever knew. It was a home with friendship and camaraderie, and—to an extent—trust. But now he had lost it. He was off to some top-secret paramilitary group based who-knows-where, and there was little say he had in the matter.

Just as McCree was scurrying up the steps and out of the basement, he caught sight of Commander Reyes. He was in the common room with a few other agents. Some of them were still futilely poking around for clues on the whereabouts of Deadlock's other leaders. But all of them were pointedly keeping their distance from the Blackwatch commander. He was everything McCree was not: strong, authoritative, respected, and quite obviously impatient.

“Come on, kid. We don’t have all day,” he said, arms folded over his chest.

Jesse took that as a warning and quickened his steps while keeping his head down. He hadn’t so much as said a word to the commander since his brief interrogation, and he was dead-set on keeping it that way. McCree slipped past Reyes and out into the warm evening air. The canyon walls cast tall shadows, hiding the sun’s descent into the horizon.

From there, he was driven to the local airport and put on one of Overwatch’s covert jets. McCree had never flown long distance before, and that fact became painfully apparent as soon as they boarded. He didn’t buckle up and stow his tray table before liftoff and was subsequently launched from his seat when the vessel met take-off velocity. It was embarrassing enough to have to sit near the commander like a misbehaved child, but being thrown around the cabin like a rag doll was too much. Whatever pride the cowboy had left, it was beat out of him when the plane leveled off, and he landed face-down in the aisle. Shuffling back to his seat, McCree did his best to avoid the commander’s eyes. However, he wasn’t cautious enough and caught sight of the woman beside him—Captain Amari, was it?—giving him a look that was half exasperation, half pity. McCree tried not to listen to the hushed tones the officers exchanged as he fiddled with the seat belt mechanism.

To make things worse, there was intermittent turbulence as they flew over the Great Plains. A nervous flyer by nature, it was all McCree could do not to scream and curse at every jostle of the wings. He settled for gripping the armrests and flinching into his seat. Seeing Jesse’s discomfort, the commander tried to take the teen’s mind off the turbulence by asking him about his life. It started off innocently enough.

“Where are you from, kid?”

“I already told ya. I’m from the Phoenix branch, but I’ve been running with the Albuquerque kids recently.”

“So I'm supposed to believe you were raised in this gang?”

“So what if I was?”

The commander’s brows furrowed at his response. “Where are your parents?”

“Ain’t none of your business,” he snapped, fussing with the bandana around his neck. “I’m an adult.”

“Barely.”

The two were silent for a while before the captain broke the tension. McCree already hated her less than he hated the commander. She was calm, collected, and an even better shot than Ashe. That was something he could respect. She met his eyes, and her voice was as smooth as steel.

“I’ve never seen anything like the revolver you use. Even among the other confiscated weapons, it is remarkably unique. How did you find a gun like this?”

McCree was tempted to give a straight answer, maybe even explain a bit of his design, but his insolence and pettiness won out in the end. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Captain Amari continued to try and coax the young cowboy out of his shell. Yet McCree, irritable as ever, replied with short, snippy responses, followed by several profane exclamations as the aircraft shuttered and bobbed. His failing attempt to act tough only gained him a sigh from the captain and a barely-there smile from the commander.

After a connection in New York, he spent another eight hours in the air, still sitting a relatively short distance from the leader of Overwatch’s covert operations division. Neither Reyes nor Amari spoke on the flight out of New York, and McCree took that as a win. He tilted his hat over his eyes and drifted in and out of sleep the whole flight.

They landed in Rome around two in the afternoon. The time zone difference had Jesse reeling; he’d never even dreamed of being so far east. Jet-lagged and antsy from nicotine withdrawal, he followed Reyes from the hangars and into the main cluster of buildings. There, he was shown to his quarters. The room was small and bare: a bed, a nightstand, and a desk were its only furnishings.

Reyes departed shortly with a quip about the load of paperwork that awaited him, leaving McCree to his own devices.

The cowboy closed the door softly. With a sigh, he put his back to the door and slid down to the floor. His hands clenched and unclenched repeatedly before they settled on the shoulder strap of the duffel bag. Every fragment of his past life was gone, barring the contents of the bag beside him. He unzipped it without ceremony and slowly sifted through its contents. Puppet Jesse was still tucked in the corner under a black serape. He looked as amused as always, desert-hued eyes gleaming. McCree could practically hear the puppet’s response to his new surroundings.

_ “Wow, what a place. Must be better than getting locked up who-knows-where.”  _

McCree laughs dryly, getting up and tossing his puppet-self onto the bed. The roughspun sheets weren’t much different from his beddings back at the hideout, and the two cowboys fell asleep without struggle.

Blackwatch was another temporary home in his eyes. He was used to moving around, thanks to his time in foster care and the years spent with Deadlock. He knew better than to put down real roots. It was several months before McCree fully unpacked and began to adjust to Blackwatch’s culture. And even then, he had very few friends to speak of. It was just him, the delinquent kid that followed the commander around. Apparently, Reyes didn’t make a habit of picking up strays to recruit into the covert ops team.

But Jesse McCree wasn’t truly alone. He always knew how to enjoy his own company. Puppet Jesse lived happily in a shoebox under his bed, and eventually, after months of secret trips to the local arts and crafts store, McCree was able to outfit him with his own miniature Blackwatch uniform. It didn’t feel right for Puppet Jesse to keep wearing that Deadlock merch long after McCree had given up that lifestyle. His wing-framed skull belt and the dark swirls of ink that ran up his left forearm were the last relics of his time in the gang.

They were vestigial details, ones that would eventually be replaced by new memories with his new family. 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> kudo, comment, yell at me on [my tumblr](https://skotch.tumblr.com), all that jazz.


End file.
